Awake My Soul
by SLynn
Summary: Reid-centric ramble, set between episodes 6X01 and 6X02.  Complete.


**Title: Awake My Soul  
><strong>**Author: **SLynn**  
>Rating: <strong>PG-13  
><strong>Pairing: <strong>None  
><strong>Spoilers: <strong>Set between 6X01 and 6X02  
><strong>Disclaimer: <strong>Does anyone actually read this?

**Notes: **Thanks Tripp3235, who always reads for me and does a great job and listens when I find a new fandom. I realize this reads like a fever dream on crack, but that's kind of the point. I'm new to the fandom, forgive me my mistakes. I tried hard to make this as accurate, detail wise, as possible. Reid-centric and that's about it. Enjoy!

* * *

><p>Spencer Reid lay perfectly still and tried to shut down his mind.<p>

He needed sleep. More than anything in the world right now, he needed sleep, but his mind wouldn't let him rest. Over and over he kept recalling the events of the day, and not the important ones, the mundane. Reid had taken seventeen phone calls, finished and filed twenty-nine reports, had four cups of tea, one latte, two donuts, and four Excedrin with a glass of water.

His head still hurt.

Reid had made his room as dark as he possibly dare. He'd drawn the shades and shut the curtains, stuffed a towel under the door to block out the excess light from the living room and had even turned the clock to face the wall. The only light left in the room came from the bathroom, and it pulled his eyes like a beacon; one moment they'd be shut and the next thing he knew they were open again, staring at the door and the thin sliver of white that encased it.

He'd been awake for two hours and thirty-eight minutes.

Insomnia was not a problem he typically had, and in truth, this wasn't insomnia. The pain in his head had gotten steadily worse until it had consumed him. A throb, a pulse, a beat, his whole body ticked to in an agonizing rhythm.

Reid already knew that, statistically, he was outside the norm. Only six percent of men were inflicted with migraines; seventy percent of sufferers were women. Typically older than he was himself. If treated, it wasn't fatal. If treated.

A call.

JJ and he was needed. They were all needed. And just as his eyes seemed incapable of closing before, now they seemed unable to open. His whole body felt heavy, but he managed. Up and to the light, squinting and shuddering with shuffling steps. Twenty-three percent experience vomiting with migraines, and he was one of those now as well, but there wasn't time for this. JJ and he was needed, but it wasn't urgent. He wouldn't need an overnight bag, but he'd need a shower. He wouldn't want a bag, Reid would just want to stop once and get to the BAU.

Another call.

Still JJ and inexplicably he thinks of Henry. He hasn't seen his godson in three days, six hours and seventeen minutes. They'd gone to the park and Reid had bought churros and a cappuccino. JJ hadn't been happy about that, but laughed. Chastised him for his poor eating habits and said that two year-olds didn't need that much sugar. Neither did adults.

He wonders if Henry will remember.

He's very young. He might. Henry might remember those days spent with the same clarity Reid does now.

"He needs you, you know."

Reid knew. He thought he knew. He must.

Outside and it's cold. Colder than normal by at least ten degrees and the streets are empty. Locking the door, the streetlight overhead surges then slowly fades out entirely leaving a halo in his vision; making his headache worse than before. Fighting back the urge to be sick again he presses on, stopping once off the steps to double check, but it's not really necessary. He has his gun, his bag, his wallet, his keys and credentials. Reid sees it, touches it, knows it, but checks again.

It's fourteen minutes after one in the morning when he arrives.

He has to swipe his card three times before the lock clicks and allows him access. All the television sets are on in the bullpen, tuned to the same local news network, and blaring loudly. Over the din he can just hear his desk phone ring.

Hotch. They've left without him. He'd missed the plane though he promised Gideon he wouldn't, not that Gideon was around to care. But Reid cared and he can't let that go. He'd promised, but Hotch ignores it. He's trying to catch him up, to let him know where to go and what to expect when he gets there, but the line is bad, the televisions too loud, there's sound in his ears and his head and he wonders why, if it had been urgent, they hadn't just told him so.

Reid would be there if he could, but he wasn't sure he could.

"Hang on."

He keeps the phone to his ear, but Hotch is gone. What was he hanging on for? Why was he stopped? Something bad must have happened because there are sirens on the television sets. Sirens and lights and maybe he could just call and say he can't make it; the nausea is worse than before. The pain is too.

Putting down his coffee and pastries, he'd made just the one stop on the way, Reid slumps into his chair, noticing the file left on his keyboard. It reads like every file he'd ever seen before and probably ever will again. Random crime by random unsubs in a random place that probably felt routine and safe and ordinary and senseless. Three shots fired. Hostages. A robbery gone bad. They've already created a map and profile and it's all over.

Standing, he checks again, but everything is still there: his gun, his bag, his wallet, his keys and credentials.

The conference room is dark but the screen is left on. Pictures of the scene are cycling through. It's a mess. There's blood on the counter and pooled on the floor and for a moment he's angry and confused because the pictures are dim and cold and the flash from the camera left auras in the frames.

It's a sloppy scene.

Is it really over?

He tries the intercom with hope that Garcia is still around. That she didn't leave him, too. Not that. Not leaving; going. Hoping she didn't go with the team. She wouldn't just leave. She wouldn't.

"I won't."

Reid knew that. That wasn't something he could ever doubt. Not out loud. He doubted to himself all the time. That people were transient like thoughts. Like unsubs. Like events. But those thoughts, and people, and stops stayed stopped. In his head. Which hurt. It hurt so badly his entire body felt sick with it.

Where was everyone?

"We're all here."

Rossi? That had been Rossi. His voice. Was he in Garcia's office too, on the intercom? Is that where Reid should be? He felt like he should know where to be, but he didn't.

Sitting. Lying. On the jet. He was on the jet. Why wouldn't he be? Where else should he be? If he wasn't at his desk, the conference room, his apartment, the jet, then he wasn't really anywhere.

It had one stop to make and then he'd reach the rest of the team. That's what Hotch had said. He was certain of it. Almost certain. He couldn't recall exactly what had been said, but that felt right. He couldn't remember the drive over either, that wasn't right.

It was fifty-two minutes after three in the morning.

The case was over. If he could only stop and think and recoup and recover. If he could do those things he could be okay. He needed to stop. To stop thinking. To make one stop and then, no. No after that. Nothing after that.

He needed sleep.

More than anything in the world right now, he needed sleep, but his mind wouldn't let him rest. Over and over he kept recalling the events of the day, and not the important ones, the mundane. Reid needed the important ones. Right now he desperately needed the important ones, but he couldn't recall.

Spencer Reid lay perfectly still and tried to open up his mind.

Was this it?

He always knew his odds were higher. Knew he was still within the window of highest probability. Twenty to twenty-eight. Not quite out of it yet. Not quite. Like a race he'd been running his whole life, the problem was, he wasn't an athlete and he feared he'd never be done or reach the end.

Was any of this real? Was this what it was like? Was he even awake? Were his eyes really open?

They were shut.

He was still in his room, in his apartment, in his bed and they were shut.

It's a migraine. It's a fever dream. It's an anything but. Anything but that. Not that.

"You're fine. You're going to be fine."

He didn't believe that, but he couldn't say so to Emily. He couldn't find her.

Sitting up, again, if he was at all, Reid let his eyes sweep across the dimly lit room.

His gun, his bag, his wallet, his keys and credentials were all stacked neatly on his dresser next to his coffee and donuts.

JJ had called. He was going in. But he'd stopped. Just one stop, on the way into the BAU. It wasn't a regular stop. He'd thought it was, but it wasn't. It had been a Saturday, and he usually stopped on Thursday. But the call hadn't been urgent and he'd had the time.

Reid had made the most common mistake there is. He'd thought he had all the time in the world.

It was one fourteen in the afternoon and he was cold because. Just because. He was always cold. Wasn't he?

Coffee.

Coffee and two donuts and his back to the door.

His head. It wasn't a migraine. He'd been hit. They'd hit Reid from behind and then took his gun, his bag, his wallet, his keys and credentials. They'd taken everything they could.

Three shots.

Three shots fired before he'd realized. Before they'd realized.

If he hadn't been there.

"They'd have still robbed the place."

Morgan was right, if Morgan was real, but they'd have done so without a gun, without hostages, without going further.

But he had been there. He thinks he had. No, Reid had been there and it had been sloppy. Disorganized. Chaotic. They'd been lucky. He had not.

It was three fifty-two in the afternoon and he was cold and on the floor and his head was resting on the lap of a woman he didn't know and couldn't see. She'd said something to him. Something quiet. Her hand was on his head and he hurt and the light was so bright.

Reid was awake, he'd been awake at the time, the whole time, talking as he wrapped his arms protectively around his own body.

"Just let them go."

He'd said that. There had been children who didn't need to see. Reid wasn't going anywhere. He could stay. They could still work this out.

"I'm not leaving."

That woman. He recognized the voice. Her hand had been in his hair. He saw her every Thursday when he stopped, he only stopped once a week. She worked there, maybe even owned the place. Said hello. She was older, like his mother. A tiny woman who always smiled. She wouldn't leave him. Reid had tried to make her go, but she wouldn't. She knew. Shook her head and told him that no one should be alone.

When they died, is what she meant.

No one should have to die alone.

But we all do anyway.

The light was brighter now. Filled the room. Blurred the edges. He'd died before and secretly hoped it would be the same, but Reid just felt cold.

And the light just kept getting brighter and harsher and more and more intrusive until he felt he had no other choice.

Spencer Reid lay perfectly still and opened his eyes.

"Welcome back."

**The End**


End file.
